innocent travellers like yourselves are likely to fall prey to the scoundrelous gangs of Tolomeis that come out to pillage and such—as shall not be specified in the face of holy men—after nightfall.’
There was a deep silence after the villain had spoken. Crouched on the cart behind his companions, holding the reins slack, Friar Lorenzo felt his heart hopping around inside his chest as if it was looking for a place to hide, and for a moment he thought he was going to faint. It had been one of those days, a scorching sun and not the slightest breeze, that reminded one of the horrors of hell. And it did not help that they had run out of water many hours ago. If Friar Lorenzo had been in charge of the moneybag, he would readily have paid the villains anything in order to move on.
‘Very well, then,’ said the senior monk, as if he had felt Friar Lorenzo’s silent plea, ‘how much, then, for your protection?’
‘Depends.’ The villain grinned. ‘What do you have on that cart, and what is it worth to you?’
‘It is a coffin, noble friend, and it contains the victim of a dreadful plague.’
Most of the brigands drew back at this news, but their captain was not so easily put off. ‘Well,’ he said, his grin broadening, ‘let’s have a look, shall we?’
‘I do not recommend it!’ said the monk. ‘The coffin must remain sealed—those are our orders.’
‘Orders?’ exclaimed the captain. ‘Since when did humble monks get orders? And since when’—he paused for effect, nursing a smirk—‘did they begin to ride horses bred in Lipicia?’
In the silence that followed his words, Friar Lorenzo felt his fortitude plunging like a lead weight to the very bottom of his soul, threatening to come out the other end.
‘And look at that!’ the brigand went on, mostly to amuse his comrades. ‘Did you ever see humble monks wear such splendiferous footwear? Now there’—he pointed his sword at Friar Lorenzo’s gaping sandals—‘is what you should all have worn, my careless friends, if your intent was to avoid taxation. As far as I can tell, the only humble brother here is the mute fellow on the cart; as for the rest of you, I’ll bet my balls you are in the service of some munificent patron other than God, and I am confident that the value of that coffin, to him, far exceeds the miserable five florins I am going to charge you for its release.’
‘You are mistaken,’ replied the senior monk, ‘if you think us capable of such expense. Two florins are all we can spare. It reflects ill on your patron to thwart the Church by such disproportionate greed.’
The bandit relished the insult. ‘Greed, you call it? Nay, my fault is curiosity. Pay the five florins or I shall know how to act. The cart and coffin stay here, under my protection, until your patron claims them in person. For I should dearly love to see the rich bastard who sent you.’
‘Then you will be protecting nothing but the stench of death.’
The captain laughed dismissively. ‘The smell of gold, my friend, overcomes all such odour.’
‘No mountain of gold,’ retorted the monk, casting aside his humility at last, ‘could suitably cover yours.’
Hearing the insult, Friar Lorenzo bit his lip and began looking for an escape. He knew his travel companions well enough to predict the outcome of the spat, and he wanted no part in it.
The brigand leader was not unimpressed with the audacity of his victim. ‘You are determined, then,’ he said, head to one side, ‘to die on my blade?’
‘I am determined,’ said the monk, ‘to accomplish my mission. And no rusty blade of yours can sever me from my goal.’
‘Your mission?’ the bandit crowed. ‘Look, cousins, here is a monk who thinks God has made him a knight!’
All the brigands laughed, more or less aware of the reason, and their captain nodded towards the cart. ‘Now get rid of these fools and take the horses and the cart to Salimbeni…’
‘I have a better idea,’ sneered the monk, and tore off his cowl to reveal the uniform underneath. ‘Why don’t we go see my master Tolomei instead, with your head on a pole?’
Friar Lorenzo groaned inwardly as his fears were fulfilled. With no further attempts at concealment, his travel companions—all of them Tolomei knights in disguise—drew their swords and daggers from cloaks and saddlebags, and the mere sound of the iron made the brigands pull away in astonishment, if only to instantly throw themselves and their horses forward again in a screaming, headlong attack.
The sudden clamour made Friar Lorenzo’s horses coil on their haunches and erupt in a frenzied gallop, pulling the cart along as they went, and there was little he could do but tear at the useless reins and plead for reason and moderation in two animals that had never studied philosophy. After three days on the road they showed remarkable spirit as they pulled their load away from the turmoil and up the bumpy road towards Siena, wheels wailing and the coffin bouncing this way and that, threatening to fall off the cart and break into splinters.
Failing all dialogue with the horses, Friar Lorenzo turned to the coffin. Using both hands and feet he tried to hold it steady, but while he struggled for a good grip on the unwieldy thing, a movement on the road behind him made him look up and realize that the safety of the coffin should be the very least of his concerns.
For he was being followed by two of the brigands, galloping apace to reclaim their treasure. Scrambling to prepare his defence, Friar Lorenzo found only a whip and his rosary, and he watched with trepidation as one of the bandits caught up with the cart, knife between his toothless gums, and reached out to grasp the wooden siding. Finding the necessary fierceness within his clement self, Friar Lorenzo swung the whip at the boarding brigand and heard him yelp with pain as the oxtail drew blood. But this was not enough to deter his companion, and when Friar Lorenzo struck again, the second villain got hold of the whiplash and jerked the handle right out of his grip. With no more than the rosary and its dangling crucifix left for self-protection, Friar Lorenzo took to throwing bits of leftover lunch at his opponent. But despite the hardness of the bread, he was unable to prevent him from finally climbing on board.
Seeing that the friar was out of ammunition, the brigand rose to his feet in gleeful triumph, took the knife from his mouth, and demonstrated the length of the blade to its trembling target.
‘Stop in the name of Christ!’ exclaimed Friar Lorenzo, holding up his rosary. ‘I have friends in heaven who will strike you dead!’
‘Oh really? I don’t see them anywhere!’
Just then did the lid of the coffin swing open, and its occupant—a young woman whose wild hair and flaming eyes made her look like an angel of vengeance—sat up in consternation. The mere sight of her was enough to make the bandit drop his knife in horror and turn completely ashen. Without hesitation the angel leaned out of the coffin, picked up the knife, and thrust it immediately back into the flesh of its owner, as high up his thigh as her anger could reach.
Screaming with anguish, the wounded man lost his balance and tumbled off the end of the cart to even greater injury. Her cheeks glowing with excitement, the girl turned to grin at Friar Lorenzo, and she would have climbed out of the coffin had he not prevented her.
‘No, Giulietta!’ he insisted, pushing her back down. ‘In the name of Jesus, stay there and be quiet!’
Slamming the lid over her indignant face, Friar Lorenzo looked around to see what had become of the other horseman. Alas, this one was less impetuous and had no intention of boarding the rumbling wagon at its current speed. Instead, he galloped ahead to seize the harness and slow the horses, and much to Friar Lorenzo’s distress, this soon began to take effect. Within another quarter of a mile the horses were gradually forced into cantering, then trotting, and finally to a complete standstill.
Only then did the villain approach the cart, and as he rode towards it, Friar Lorenzo saw that it was none other than the lavishly clad captain of the brigands, still smirking and seemingly untouched by the bloodshed. The setting sun